Love & Death in Burgundy

by Susan C. Shea

  “Really,” Katherine said. “She’s hardly more than a child.” Even as she said it, though, Katherine noticed that Jeannette was wearing a bra you could see through the fabric of her top, pink lip gloss, and a midriff-baring camisole of synthetic lace, perhaps chosen to please Brett. She did look more like a contemporary teenager tonight and less like the unself-conscious free spirit whose open face and mobile expressions delighted Katherine when the girl posed for her.

  Suddenly, the sprite pushed away from the wall and, tossing her hair back, said to Katherine, “I am no child, and you do not speak for me. I will not model for you, I don’t care how much you pay. Modeling is boring for me.” She spoke in English, but her tone and the look she gave Katherine were enough to wake her father from his increasing stupor. He muttered to Katherine that she should go away and mind her business.

  Her eyes swept the room in embarrassment and she saw Pippa’s expression of keen interest before the young woman averted her eyes. Great, she thought, next thing I know I’ll be a character in a crime novel.

  Yves and Penny finished their ballad and there was general applause plus a loud “bravo” from Betty Lou. As they exited stage left, Emile bounded up stage right, accordion pressed to his chest. He began to play a familiar French cabaret song, and many in the room sang along with him, stamping their glasses gently on the tables in rhythm.

  J.B. was still touching Jeannette lightly on the arm, looking into her face. Brett was flushed and he obviously didn’t like whatever was happening. He turned abruptly and slammed out of the café door.

  This is ridiculous, Katherine thought. J.B. is coming on like a lecher, the girl’s father hasn’t got a clue, and Jeannette is so angry at me that she’s oblivious. Her first impulse was to insist on walking the girl home, but Jeannette only stuck her lower lip out when Katherine tried to get her attention.

  Hell with them all, she thought, blood rushing to her head and making her temples pound. She turned and went back to meet Michael. “I’m ready to go,” she said, and he nodded.

  No one turned to wish them a good evening as they left except Betty Lou, who waved with her usual absentminded good humor, and J.B., who cocked his head and winked as they passed. “If that man winks at me one more time…” Katherine let her sentence trail off as she and Michael started up the hill in the quiet and dark.

  “Give it a break, Kay,” Michael said, tension in his voice. “Let this ride until I’ve finished the recording and the tour, okay? Then, if you don’t like him, you don’t have to see him. I promise.”

  “Michael,” she began tentatively, “I know this is a terrible thought, but I can’t help but wonder if J.B. is a little too interested in Jeannette. He talks about her like she’s sexually active, and I’m quite sure she’s not … yet.”

  “No way. I’ve known a lot like him, sleazy talk but nothing more. He’s harmless, especially in this tight little community and with that guard dog of a father.”

  “Maybe,” she said, “but Jean’s interest in protecting her is more about seeing if she’s worth money to us rich Americans.”

  “You don’t mean he’s pimping her?” Michael sounded dubious. She told him about the modeling tempest at the river. “See, that’s what I mean. I doubt he would go further.”

  She wasn’t as sure and might have said more, but there was a crackling in the shrubbery in front of Mme Robilier’s house, and Katherine turned to look. Nothing. But there it was again. “Brett?” No answer. Maybe she had imagined it. She was tired and her head hurt. All she wanted was home. If Brett was hiding, it was probably because he was hoping to catch Jeannette for a quick kiss later, or at least that’s what Katherine hoped. Jeannette didn’t want her help or advice. No one did. Fine. She’d paint the scene without a model; she had plenty of experience working from figures in art books if need be.

  The dogs stirred themselves, bumping into each other and their humans as Katherine called in the cat and Michael locked up. They had almost fallen asleep when the sounds of a wailing electric guitar reached them, wafting up from the café. “Life in a picturesque little French town,” Michael said into his pillow. Katherine, soothed with a prescription sleeping pill she rarely needed, only made a comforting noise, then fell into sleep.

  She needed to get a decent night’s sleep. The vernissage was tomorrow. She had barely finished the last painting in time and was sure the whole affair would be a massive flop. If Penny wasn’t coming, would there be anyone there other than herself and Michael?

  CHAPTER 24

  The opening was bound to be a tremendous success, the two women who owned the gallery assured her. Madame Gigot assured her they had put posters up all over town and sent e-mails to their entire list of local art lovers. Katherine wasn’t fooled, and, their shrill compliments and repeated exclamations aside, there couldn’t have been more than two dozen people there, and not all at one time. She had put on her most ingratiating face, had left her vintage clothing at home and worn a little black dress, à la mode in West L.A. ten years ago, and rationed herself to a single glass of courage as she waited.

  The paintings, spaced out so luxuriously on the white walls, looked different, more significant than when they sat on rickety easels in her cluttered studio, although a faint scent of varnish hung about the last couple she had finished. She was in love with them all, she realized, and hoped perversely that none would sell. She caught herself up short, remembering how precarious their finances were. No, she hoped they all would sell. She would paint more of these bucolic scenes with lambs and milkmaids and gold-touched clouds, but always with that little hint of something not quite comme il faut, as it should be, that she hoped made them more than pretty, made them a little dangerous.

  Katherine had planned to bring Jeannette, who loved seeing herself transformed in the paintings of her, and was disappointed that the girl hadn’t been at home when she stopped by to invite her. J.B. and Betty Lou breezed in, still dressed in casual clothing no Frenchman or -woman would wear, still blithely unconcerned about how thoroughly they stood out. They were effusive, loud, and adamant about the brilliance of her paintings, so much so that Katherine winced and felt obliged to say how disappointing the series was.

  Partway through their visit, Sophie sidled in, immediately walked over to a painting as far away from the Hollidays as possible, and stood within a few inches of the canvas as if inspecting it for bugs.

  Penny had come after all, but only for a quick look, congratulatory kisses, and the explanation that Yves was waiting in the car because there was nowhere near enough to park. “We’re going to stop at a vineyard near Chablis and then race up to Troyes. There’s a modern art museum there, did you know?” And with that, she was off.

  Well, yes, Katherine thought, sipping her wine with great deliberateness. And there’s modern art here, too, darling, in this room, if you and Yves cared a fig for art and were willing to walk two blocks to see it. Providentially, Mme Gigot pulled an elderly man over to be introduced, and Katherine pushed away her bad mood.

  Several vineyard operators came in, hearty, tanned couples who, Katherine figured, came to all the openings as a break from the hard work of managing vines all year. She was sure the wine she had supplied would be privately scorned by them all, but since she had to pay for it, hell with them. She smiled broadly, however, marshaled her best French, and was surprised—no, shocked—when one couple purchased a large painting of a girl dancing alone under a tree. When the little red dot was placed beside it and the couple had shaken her hand several times before departing in a chorus of congratulations, Katherine had to sit down. My goodness, she thought, I’ve sold a painting in France. My work, she heard herself explaining to an unknown audience in some future setting, is in collections in France. Well, she’d have to sell at least one more to make that literally true, but it would surely happen now.

  She looked up from her reverie in time to see Sophie approaching. “These are so charming, Mme Goff,” Sophie said. “I am sorry Mam
an was not able to come herself, but I trust you understand.”

  “She’s better?”

  “Oh yes, but there is still much to do, and she tires so easily. I’m commuting from Paris at the moment, so difficult, but what can one do? You know, I am the head of the company now?”

  From unhappy rabbit to CEO, a more impressive transformation than Cinderella’s. Who would have thought?

  “Later, when our lives return to normal, I would like to talk with you about doing a piece for Château de Bellegarde, if I might?”

  “Of course. In fact, I had already begun to think about a double portrait of your parents before this … happened,” Katherine said, stumbling over a desire not to say baldly that the young woman’s father had died.

  “Precisely what I was thinking,” Sophie said, clapping her hands and, wonder of wonders, smiling. “We’ll talk later, bien sûr.”

  There didn’t seem to be much to say after that, and, congratulating Katherine, the young woman turned to leave. J.B. had been watching her from the other side of the room and bounded over, grabbing and shaking Sophie’s hand and explaining who he was in tones that suggested this was her lucky day. Katherine saw the young woman take a few steps sideways to escape his attention, and she tried to signal to Michael that it would be a kindness to rescue Adele’s daughter. But Michael was listening to one of the owners, who was in the middle of a long tale that Katherine heard only wisps of, something cheerful to do with ice storms and bad roads in the Pyrenees. Sophie ducked out of the gallery and J.B. followed. They stood on the cobblestones, a striped awning in front of a religious bookstore across the narrow street serving as a backdrop as it filled and emptied in the stiff, swirling wind. J.B. was providing his own gusty sales pitch, she was sure.

  Katherine resisted the urge to save Sophie from her rude countryman. Michael was right, she could not assume responsibility for every American who blundered around, making acceptance difficult for those who merely wanted to live quietly among the French. Luckily, there weren’t too many J.B.s to apologize for. She turned away from the scene at the door and marched over to hear more about winter in the mountains of the Midi.

  The vineyard owners’ was the only purchase during the opening reception, but the gallery owners proclaimed it to be a wonderful omen for the two weeks the show would be up. They assured her they would contact their regular customers to tell them the work was selling quickly and that Mme Goff’s paintings were the next thing, what one must have.

  Michael grinned his approval at her as he loaded the unopened wine and the cheese platter in the trunk of the Citroën. He suggested celebrating by eating at a nearby bistro, but Katherine was exhausted and wanted only to get home, feed the animals, and spend a quiet hour reading Balzac.

  CHAPTER 25

  A fine mist was falling when Katherine left Mme Robilier’s stuccoed house with its freshly painted pale-green shutters the next afternoon. She had accomplished what she came to do. The rival gardener to Mme Pomfort would contribute her prized yellow roses to decorate the table at the entrance to the tent where people paid a small fee for the show and received their programs. “The place of honor,” Katherine had said, and Madame had nodded solemnly. Much better than festooning the stage itself, which was bound to be dusty and tangled with amplifier cords, she said, hoping her comment would never make it back to Mme Pomfort’s ears.

  As she passed the church garden, that keeper of Reigny’s social order stood up from her low stool next to some tomato plants that were resisting her demand for order and propriety. With one hand on her back and a handful of weeds in the other, her posture still managed to signal the degree of Katherine’s insult in calling on someone with such suspect ancestors. They exchanged “Bonjour, Madame”s with no warmth, and Katherine reminded herself to have Michael arrange a firewood delivery from the farm in another town before he left on tour.

  She trudged past Jean’s messy courtyard and heard a rustling sound from the old oak tree that spread its ancient branches over the roadway. Jeannette dropped gracefully from her concealed place among the branches and, to Katherine’s surprise, fell into step with her. To her greater surprise, Katherine felt her heart swell with, well, perhaps it was pride and perhaps it was affection. Katherine knew they were still visible to the disapproving old woman in her garden, but she decided she didn’t care. Jeannette was worth a dozen Mme Pomforts, and if the girl was trying to make up for her outburst the other night, Katherine was happy to welcome the child back. Jeannette needed someone on her side as much as she did.

  “Comment ça va, cherie?”

  The question didn’t elicit the same list of symptoms in the teenager as it had in Katherine’s older neighbors. Jeannette shrugged and was silent. But her arm snaked around Katherine’s waist, and they walked in a more companionable silence than they had in a week. After a hundred yards, Jeannette ventured a question. “When is old enough to have sex? Is it like the movies?”

  Katherine stopped in the middle of the street. “I have no idea what movies you mean, but I promise you, you’re not old enough.” She noticed Jeannette was dressed in her normal tomboy attire today and the sparkly polish was already fading. “Is it Brett? Is he bothering you?”

  Jeannette shrugged. “No,” she said, hesitating, “not exactly.”

  Katherine wasn’t sure what “exactly” meant, but the look on Jeannette’s face said she was in the throes of suffering as only teenage girls can experience. “Listen,” she said, facing Jeannette and holding both of her arms. “You’re only ready when you love someone so much that you don’t even have to ask yourself the question.” She struggled to make sure her French was good enough to drive home her point. She couldn’t be sure Jeannette would get the message if she delivered it in English. “But, trust me, that’s a ways off. And you never, ever have to let someone convince you if you don’t want to, okay, d’accord?”

  Jeannette nodded, even managed a small smile, the first Katherine had seen in a while. Impulsively, she hugged the girl. Mothering wasn’t something she’d had much of when she was Jeannette’s age, or practice in as an adult, or, honestly, much desire for given how unhappy the role had made her own parent, but right now she felt ready to do battle to protect this chick.

  They resumed walking until the bend in the road where Katherine would go uphill. “Want some ice cream?” she asked.

  “Non, merci, I need to go to the pool,” Jeannette said.

  “Pool?”

  “At the old quarry. The little kids can’t go there, but Brett and I sometimes swim.”

  “Isn’t it too chilly today, with the rain?”

  “Oui, but I have to go there for something.” A look passed swiftly over her features, but it disappeared before Katherine could be sure it was there, and she kissed Katherine noisily on both cheeks and vanished from view down the dirt road to the quarry.

  Katherine had almost reached her gate when the Hollidays’ SUV passed her. J.B., at the wheel, stared ahead intently and didn’t acknowledge her wave or even seem to see her. The car’s noise faded as it disappeared from her sight. The phone was ringing and she hurried back inside. Michael was in Auxerre at the music store and it might be him calling to see if she needed anything while he was in town.

  “Hi, sweetie,” said Betty Lou, in her warm contralto voice. “Can I speak to Mike?” Hearing that he wasn’t there, she opted to leave a message. “J.B. has got it in his head that tomorrow’s the day we leave for the Riviera. Honestly, that man is too much. But we did promise Brett we’d head to the beach sometime, and I guess this is that time.”

  Katherine wondered if they knew Brett and Jeannette were edging toward something they shouldn’t. If so, taking a break wasn’t a bad idea, although Jeannette would be devastated.

  “Tell Mike not to worry. We’ll be back in a couple of weeks to finish the sessions. Who knows, I might even have a little more zip to my voice if I hit it big in the casinos.” She laughed. “And J.B. won’t mind. I hear the young ladi
es wear nothing but thongs on the beach, and I don’t mean shower shoes. Lord knows how we’ll keep Brett from staring at them, though. The life of a mother,” she said, and rang off in high good humor.

  Katherine was restless after the call for some reason. Of course Betty Lou wasn’t gambling with their money. She and Michael hadn’t even written the check. Michael would have some time to ease up and shuck off some of the stress he’d been feeling as the CD and the tour began to take shape. This was all happening so fast, and they hadn’t talked about the big issue—his having to deal somehow with Eric.

  Another item on her list was a talk with Jeannette about sex before the Hollidays got back. She was pretty sure Jean hadn’t faced up to that particular challenge and didn’t have much faith in what he would say if he tried. The child seemed to swing between high spirits and despondency, the agonies typical of teenagers throughout the ages, she supposed. The girl’s face as she kissed Katherine good-bye was open and trusting again, and that meant the world to her.

  As she remembered, though, another face came to mind, J.B.’s as he drove past, and the sense of urgent purpose in his driving. She had a sudden image of J.B. drooling over the girl at the café. Without thinking too much, she grabbed the dogs’ leashes and called for them. A walk down the hill would be good for all of them. There was no SUV parked at the café, or along the street, so perhaps he had been intent on an errand farther away. She peered as far around the downhill bend as she could. Pippa was out for a walk too, her mop of red hair distinctive even at a distance. Katherine realized that she had seen a lot more of the young writer since Albert’s death, doubtless because the police who were knocking on doors, the rampant gossip and speculation about plots and motives, had fired her creative juices. Katherine retreated, pulling hard on the dogs’ leashes. The last thing she was in the mood for was being waylaid by the ardent crime researcher.